


Putting Things In Order

by CavannaRose, MelyssaShadows



Series: Assorted Marvel Fics [10]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A penis gets removed guys, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood and Gore, Clint is a Bad Guy, Deaf Character, Dismemberment, Dubious Consent, Gen, Guns, I don't know, Knives, Murder, Prostitution, Team Up, Villain!Clint, Violence, dark!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2020-09-02 05:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20270929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelyssaShadows/pseuds/MelyssaShadows
Summary: In a darker timeline, Clint Barton runs jobs taking out the scum of the earth, but the collateral damage doesn't bother him anymore, and he'll use bad guys to get his goals.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dark AU with mature themes and formerly good guys being really awful. If that's not your thing please go elsewhere.

Barton was in a foul mood, sitting in the sagging chair of the miserable motel, the stench of the multitudes who had stayed here before offending his nostrils. The only thing worse than the tacky, low rent location was the rhythmic pounding from the next room. Every time the headboard hit the adjoining wall his rage grew, pooling in the pit of his stomach. Even here, though, he was the master of himself. Tending the fury and disgust like a carefully stoked fire, feeding the embers within him. It was only a matter of time, after all. The boring bastard next door couldn’t hold out much longer, not the way he was humping, like a Chihuahua on steroids.

The sound of a loud, fake, female release wailed through the drywall, and Clint stood, straightening the leg of his dark trousers as the relieved male cry followed it. Pitiful. For a moment he considered demonstrating to the ignoramus exactly how badly he had failed at achieving his partner’s release, but dismissed it. It would be a wasted effort, the man was about to die. Checking the sheathes for his blades, he cast a lingering glance at his bow. Next time, this one had to be … intimate. He moved out into the hall, pausing at the door, listening as the Disappointment moved to the toilet. Sounds of water running almost covered up the quiet movements of the female gathering her things.

The place was so old and rundown it still used real keys, one of the things he liked about it. With a twist of his knife he broke the lock, stepping into the room. It really was a pathetic scene. Bathroom door partly open, Disappointment’s hairy buttocks visible through the gap, clothes on the floor, and there, kneeling by the bed, a woman with messy black hair fishing around in the mess for who knew what. His eyes ran over her lush frame, noting bruises new and old across her dark skin, barely perceptible in the low light. He narrowed his eyes as she looked up, gasped, falling against the bed, sheet clutched to her chest. His hand played with the knife, spinning it between his fingers as he dared her to scream.

Smart girl closed her mouth, big brown eyes wide with worry. Voice low, he growled out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t move from that spot. Stay quiet.” She whimpered, drawing the stained fabric of the sheet tighter around her. It was so thin that he could see the line of her curves. They made his fingers twitch, but he had to take care of the Disappointment first. Kicking open the door with his heavy boot, he smiled in malicious contentment as it banged into the back of the man, driving him forward with a grunt of surprise. Clint moved in, driving his blade through the back of the man’s hand, pinning it to the wall behind the toilet.

Living up to the name Barton gave him, the Disappointment didn’t even fight back. He half turned, stopping when the sharp blade tore across his hand, blubbering like a baby with a skinned knee. “You’ve been a bad boy, Carson. Taking jobs that weren’t meant for you. Trying to snake the big payouts. Worse, you’re fucking the merchandise.” Clint tsked, moving close enough he could taste the fear and stink of sweat coming off the big man in waves. “Maybe they let you pull that shit in HYDRA, but you’re swimming with sharks now.”

With a punch to the kidney he swung Carson around, eliciting a strangled scream from the man as the blade in his hand moved more. With one smooth motion Barton drew a second knife, driving it through the man’s other hand. He stepped back, watched the heaving chest and gut of his target with a sneer of disgust. “If you’re going to fuck the merchandise, you should at least have the equipment for it.” Pulling a third knife out, he lifted the man’s flaccid cock with the tip, and snorted. “Little prick like this? You can’t even break a hymen with the thing.”

Clint stepped out of the bathroom, looking for the girl. She was right where he left her, and he smiled, though the expression wasn’t comforting. “Good girl. Come here…” Shaking like a leaf, she rose, eyes wide and anxious. He loved that look on them, so unsure, he could get off on their anticipation alone, but that wasn’t why he was here. He beckoned to the pretty little thing and she made her shaking way across the room. She was smarter than most, didn’t try to run, didn’t scream. Her eyes got wider when he handed her the blade, hilt first. “Come inside, pet.”

He stepped aside, ushering her into the bathroom with a hand on the small of her back. He felt the tension when she saw Carson, saw the slight wrinkling beside her eyes as she tried not to glare. He leaned in, his lips right beside her ear. “If you cut off every part of him that touched you, I’ll take you somewhere where they’ll never hurt you again.”

The Disappointment shouted a protest and Clint punched him, square in the cheek, before cramming a dingy towel into his mouth. He turned to the girl, watching with interest as her hand steadied, her eyes focusing in just below Carson’s belt. She took a hesitant step closer. “No one will ever know you did it. They’ll think it was me. They’d never believe you had the guts.” He urged her on, a sadistic smile turning up the corners of his lips as she let the sheet fall. Her curves were gorgeous, and he appreciated them, knowing he’d never touch them. If he was gonna share, he liked to pick who left marks on a body that he made his.

It was probably best she didn’t look up as she knelt on the tiles, his face was a nightmare of violence and desire as he watched those delicate fingers grab hold of Carson. The Disappointment screamed high and terrified behind the makeshift gag, and the surprising little piece actually brought the blade down, sawing at the skin with a fervent level of focus that impressed him in spite of himself. Blood pooled up between her fingers, pooling on the dirty floor by her knees, staining her skin as it gathered there.

Sooner than he would have liked, she dropped the laughably small gathering of skin and veins to the floor, sitting back on her haunches with the knife. Her face said she was in shock, and he couldn’t resist. Wrapping his calloused fingers around her wrist, Clint drew her up along his body, hand holding the knife with her as he stole a kiss. She tasted of sweat and confusion, with a hint of mint from whenever she had last brushed her teeth. He pillaged her mouth with his tongue, biting her lip as he pulled away. Nothing was half so sexy as brown eyes full of insecurity, and he smiled down at her, almost a gentle expression. “You did good, pet.”

Her eyes widened, and slowly she dropped to the floor as he let her go, her fingers releasing below his hand where they brushed her belly, the hilt of the dagger all that still showed. He twisted the blade, following her to the floor and laying her down in the mix of Carson’s blood and her own. “Told you girl, no one can hurt you now.”

Pulling out the knife he turned to Carson, cleaning the edge on the second dirty towel. “It’s the only warning you’re gonna get. Do the jobs you’re given. Don’t overstep. Next time I might be feeling creative when I show up.” Then he was gone, leaving the Disappointment to deal with the mess and the cleanup, and to figure out how to get his hands away from the wall without losing them.


	2. Chapter 2

The feel of the bike between his legs, the rush of the wind in his face, for a moment Clint Barton was almost content. The road was open, empty, and for the next twenty minutes he didn’t have to think about the Mission, HYDRA, or SHIELD. It was a rare freedom, and he relished in it. Of course, just thinking those thoughts guaranteed that something was going to go tits up. His pocket vibrated, indicating a message on the burner phone he had been carrying for last night’s job. Cursing, he scanned the horizon for a good place to pull over. Might as well gas up and grab something to drink if he was going to have to stop and figure out who had gotten this fucking number.

Three miles up the road he pulled into a crummy little gas station-diner combo and gassed up the bike before parking it. Heading into the diner, he found himself a booth at the very back, then pulled out the disposable black flip phone, thumbing it open. _Asset Acquired. Next Target: 40.740489 by -74.031488. _Great. Fucking Hoboken. Exactly where he did not want to be. There was just something about the neighbourhood that got under his skin. Still, if _he_ thought it was a point of interest, who was Clint to argue? There’d been a lot of reasons he left SHIELD, and one of them was so that he could do this. Get rid of problems, regardless of the obstacles in the way. SHIELD was too cautious, and that was how HYDRA had crawled inside them.

He drank the burnt diner coffee, and ate a slice of the surprisingly good peach pie, considering whether or not he would head to the Compound first or not. He needed to switch out his gear before heading through to New York for the next job, so it was probably his best bet. The Compound wasn’t home, not in any way that mattered, and that was how he liked it. It was a place to keep his gear, to train, and to focus on what was important. There were so many shit stains in the world, and he was here to apply bleach to all of them.

Speaking of shit stains, two armed men in balaclavas chose that very bad moment to enter the diner, automatic weapons slung across their chests as they started shouting at people to get on the floor, to give them their money. Clint watched, impassive, and drained the dregs of the terrible coffee with one last swig. “I said get down on the ground old man! I will blow your fucking face off! On your knees, hand over your wallet! I ain’t fucking kidding with you, grandpa.” Old man? Idiots must be young then. Cup still in his hand he raised an eyebrow, standing up as the kid brandished his weapon. Barton stepped out of the booth. “That’s right old man, you just hit your knees real gentle like and nobody has to get hurt.”

“Now, what would be the fun in that?” Clint drawled, before slamming the coffee mug directly into the punk’s forehead. The kid went down howling, his gun going off as it clattered to the floor, peppering the wall beside them with bullet holes. Panicking, the other wannabe tough guy turned and started shooting in Barton’s direction. The former Avenger dropped to his knees, smirking about how it was exactly what the idiot in the ski mask had been trying to get him to do, pulling a blade from his boot and driving it through the exposed eye of the criminal he had bashed with the now shattered mug. A quick twist guaranteed that he would never commit another crime.

Sliding across the bloody puddle that was spreading from the body, he slipped behind the diner counter, bringing a finger to his lips to shush the frightened waitress huddled there. The trigger happy bad guy had stopped shooting. “Danny…?” His rather young voice cracked, and Clint heard him moving across the diner floor towards the body of his friend. There was nothing more pathetic than criminals who weren’t prepared to face the consequences of their actions. Listening while the footsteps drew nearer, Barton straightened up, letting his blade fly before he dropped back down again. He heard the dull thunk of metal hitting flesh, the cry of pain. Bullets sprayed the display behind the counter, sending shattering glass raining down on him and the waitress.

She screamed and he pulled her against him, one hand wrapped around her mouth to muffle the sound. “Babydoll, you gotta keep real quiet, understand?” He didn’t release her until she nodded, and as soon as she was free she scurried away from him, and he smirked. Picking through the shards of glass, he found a couple pieces he liked the shape of, bouncing to his feet again to face the gun-wielding psycho. He smiled at the young man, noting the way the kid’s hands shook as he held the rifle pointed at Clint. Sirens sounded in the distance, and the blue eyes behind the balaclava widened. “Looks like company’s on the way, kid. You’re just as done as your buddy on the floor there.”

The kid dropped his gun, covering his ears as the motion set it off. Barton ducked, coming up again quickly and throwing his shards of glass at the wannabe’s retreating back. He dropped, one embedded deep enough in the side of his neck to sever his jugular. Brushing off his hands, Clint headed for the door. A man in a trucker hat, most of his bulk spread in front of a mom and her two kids, stood up, keeping himself between the archer and the innocents. “Sir… I think you gotta stay until the police get here.”

Barton laughed. “No. I don’t think so.” He hit the road, turning a bend just as the black and whites roared into the gas station parking lot.

A few hours later, he was back in his rooms in the Compound. Pulling off his vest, he sighed as shards of glass tinkled onto the cold tile floor. Pausing, he tilted his head to one side. Listening. “You know, the few people who risk coming into these rooms generally knock.”


	3. Chapter 3

A soft chuckle proceeds the interloper, and he relaxes. He has no doubt that one day they would go toe to toe, and he’d end up in the ground, but if that were today he never would have heard her. Her voice is silky and teasing, whatever she had been up to tonight had put her in a good mood. "Barton, since when have I ever knocked?" She closed her eyes, tasting the air more like a snake than like the spider she took her name from. When she opened them again, they locked on him and the way her lips curled made his own twist in echo. "Clinton Francis Barton, have you been killing without me again?"

He shrugged halfheartedly, giving his vest a shake to allow more shards of glass to hit the floor. At this rate he was going to have to sleep in his boots. Fucking hell. “Me? Killing without you? Would I do something like that, Tash?” He flashed his teeth in an approximation of a smile. They both knew what the other did for a living, it was one of the reasons she was his best friend. No need to pretend to be a nice guy when you were with a woman who called herself the Black Widow. Hanging up his vest he began to unload his knives, swearing mildly when he noticed a nick in one of the blades. Was it the fat fuck or the idiot at the diner? Fuck if he knew. He should have noticed, though, and that pissed him off.

“You here on business or pleasure?” He queried, studying her out of the corner of his eye and noting her little arsenal. “Though I suppose raiding my Compound counts as both for you most days.” He snorted. There weren’t a lot of people he let in here, and even fewer who had the codes to allow themselves to waltz in. Natasha was one of them, mostly because the nosy bitch had broken through all his codes and snuck in when he wouldn’t tell her himself. Took him three weeks to get things back in working order. After that he just gave in, let her come and go as she pleased. She was always good for whatever she took, besides, if he didn’t run into her at the Compound now and then, he’d barely see her at all.

Stripping out of his shirt and tossing it on the floor amidst all the broken glass, he crossed the room to where he kept his clothes. The low light of the room made the scars criss-crossing his torso almost glow. Every one of them he’d earned trying to be a good little boy. He had believed in S.H.I.E.L.D. once upon a time. He’d believed in the mission, and in the greater good, and then when H.Y.D.R.A. had crawled inside them like a poison, with no one being the wiser, he’d known the truth. S.H.I.E.L.D. and H.Y.D.R.A. were one and the same. They both had their own agendas, and neither of those agendas were to rid the world of the scum that crawled into the dark places, dragging the innocent down with them.

That’s when he had left, struck out on his own. He had a few contacts inside both organizations, and of course the jobs that came in from _Him_, but mostly he went where he wanted, where he felt he was needed. An old friend had suggested his collateral damage had skyrocketed since he’d struck out on his own, but they didn’t understand. Once that kind of filth touched a person, it tainted them. No one who entered his field of vision was truly innocent by the time he got there. This world wouldn’t let anyone stay unblemished.

Pulling on a shirt that was identical not only to the one he had removed, but to every other shirt hanging in the closet, he slid the door closed with a snort. He was starting to look like a god-damned cartoon character. Same outfit every fucking day. Trimming out the excess from his life had left him a little…cold. Predictable? Fucking never. He nodded to Natasha. “What’s got you swinging through here, Tash? I thought you were targeting the glitzy folk lately. Someone send you to slum it with your old pal?” He tried to keep tabs on her, as best as he could anyway. He had a couple jobs come through now and then where she was the target, and if he watched where she was he could avoid picking them up. It wasn’t that he was above killing a former team mate, fuck, if he caught them doing some of the shit out there he would happily put down his best friend, he just didn’t think he could take her. The broad was scary tough, and that training she’d had over in the motherland had left her colder inside than he was.

Pulling a few stray fragments of glass out of his hair, he moved past her to where he kept his pride and joy. A modified Prime Logic Crossbow. It had been fucking expensive, and then the upgrades he’d bullied out of the eggheads had made it one of a kind. It was fast, accurate, and settled into his hand like a lover’s curves. Pretending to ignore Natasha while remaining keenly aware of exactly where she was at all times, he checked the bow over, tested the string tension, and examined the moving parts. Everything in order.

Putting the bow down on the bed he grabbed both a back and a hip quiver, digging through his arrows to find just the right ones. “I’m headed out to Hoboken. Some dirt-bag has gotten too big for his britches, closed himself up near the docks with a private fucking army. If you’re not out on some other job, you’re welcome to come out and play. I won’t even cry that much when you ditch out at the end to play slap and tickle with the one armed man.” He turned to flash her another grin.


	4. Chapter 4

“Slum it up?” Natasha laughed, and it almost sounded like she used to, back when they both believed in SHIELD and its mission. "Barton, I may kill the rich, but we both know I love every chance I get to play with you. Besides, who better to kill the rich than me? Rich men all fall for the same smile and game. Honestly, I'm bored with it. I want action. I want excitement. I want to get my hands dirty."

Nat had as much experience getting her hands dirty as he did, maybe more. It was why the worked so well together. If he came close to trusting anyone, it was her. More fool him, probably. She’d come to SHIELD cold, he had learned that coldness within the ranks. It wasn’t their only difference though. If anyone had said she would be the one to come out of the life with more humanity intact, he would have laughed at them, but she did. She still trusted a few people, still gave a shit. Him? Something had died inside of him. All that was left was the killing machine. Hawkeye was some pretty little brunette girl now. Him? He had accepted the title Ronin. Wanderer. Alone. It was just better that way.

He made an exception for Natasha. He owed her that much, for what they shared in Budapest, and the bonds they’d formed after. "Hoboken? How odd. I received a message to go there as well." She lifted her hands above her head slowly, stretching her back until she heard it pop, and a cat-like smile moves over her lips. "Apparently, they want both of us to go to this. How delightful. The question is, is it because they that only we can handle it, or do they just want us to have fun?"

As she walked over to the wardrobe to pull out gear he could never convince her to keep in her own fucking room, he mulled her words over in his head. Having them both headed for Hoboken didn’t seem right. In the years he’d been working freelance, he’d never been assigned a team up, certainly not one he wasn’t warned about ahead of time. Either they were working the same job for different people, or this was some kind of fucking set-up. Clint wouldn’t put it past _him_ to put them in each other’s line of fire, and a flash of ice cold rage flooded his chest. He used to burn hot, but that wasn’t his way anymore.

She interrupts his train of thought again, easing the knot in his chest. "Banner has been trying to get a hold of us. Something about chemical plants in Russia. Another wannabe 'Super Soldier Serum'." Her smile fades as she gets lost in memories of her own. "I haven't been taking his calls or messages. A part of me has been wondering if this is his way of calling us back in. When it all fell apart, he was the last hold out on us coming back 'home'. _If_ there's something in Russia, I'm not the person to handle that. If I go back to Moscow I'll burn it to the ground."

He understands how much she hates Russia, and he understands hating your mother country. He used to believe in America, he really did, but trying to be a hero had taught him that there was nothing worth loving anymore. Not his country, not the people in it, and certainly not himself. Hating to expose himself with a killer in the room, he turned his back on Natasha and walked over to a small case attached to the wall. Dialing in the code, he opened it up to examine the contents. Hearing aids. The last thing Stark had ever done for him. He’d hated admitting the failing, but after a bad encounter or two, the loss was impossible to deny. He couldn’t risk people sneaking up on him.

Reaching behind his ears he removed the nearly invisible external piece of the implants he was currently wearing. Suddenly the world was silent, only the rush of his own blood and steady beat of his heart echoing in whatever receptors were still functional. Turning the left one in his hand, he glared at the blackened spot where the wire had fizzled. Nat never would have got the drop on the old him. Maybe he was getting too old, too worn down, even for this shitty job. Idly he wondered what he would do when he couldn’t mop up bad guys anymore. He used to think that maybe he’d retire out in the country somewhere. Start a little farm, get married, have a couple of kids. Those were the dreams of a younger man, though. The dreams of a man who still believed.

He carefully placed both pieces into their compartments and pulled out a new set. He would never toss them where they might be found, where his secret might come out. Three. Three people in the whole world knew he was deaf. Stark. Tasha, who had, of course, discovered it one night when she came barrelling in to invade his privacy, and somehow that wise-cracking assclown with the face that looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. Clint’s phone vibrated in his pocket, reminding him of the job at hand. Fuck, if _He_ knew that Ronin was a cripple… the jobs would definitely dry up, that much was certain.

He fumbled with the replacement implants, large fingers clumsy with the delicate instrumentation. He was no good with tech, not anymore. Though he could string a 250lb bow without blinking an eye, he was losing some of that manual dexterity in his old age. He dropped one of the nearly invisible pieces and swore, louder than he intended since he couldn’t hear himself. Snapping the case closed he dropped onto his knees, running his fingers through the short carpet, trying to find the missing hearing aid. What he needed was to get out there and murder some fucker. That would make him feel better.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint doesn't notice as Natasha kneels beside him, helping in the search. He's so caught up in his own spiral of anger and frustration. He had heard the jokes, back in the day. The Tissue Paper Avenger, the Token Normal Guy. Even Tasha had been altered, enhanced, made to be something more. Him? He wasn't even on par with a man on the street. Cripple. The word echoed in his head on repeat, when a slim-fingered hand lands on his shoulder. He freezes, reminding himself that if Nat was about to kill him, he would already be dead.

Slowly he turns, watches as she signs that she can see his missing item. Tense and rigid, he waits as she retrieves it from somewhere near his knees. Great, maybe his vision was starting to fail as well. In an oddly forward and almost affectionate gesture, she touches his chin, his cheek, settling the hearing aid into place herself. It was reminiscent of who they were before. Back when he still believed in the system, back when fighting for the cause left a few less bodies on the floor. It almost made him nostalgic, at least, it would have if he wasn't so fucking hollow inside.

She whispered words in Russian into his ear, and a small smirk crossed his face. She was right. It was a good time to kill. They'd stalk the target, examine him and his motives, determine his threat level, and if he was worth the time, take him out. Never again wold Clint work just on the basis of an order. He made his own decisions now. He wasn't sure if Nat was as thorough in her own information gathering, but he didn't judge her for that. She was what they had made her, just as much as he was. She was still the best man to have at your back, the only man in Clint's work lately.

The familiar scent of her perfume lingers around him as she practically dances away, her grace and economy of movement so intrinsic to her. If he could care about anyone anymore, he would choose her. Not romantically, that would never be who they were, they were so much more to each other than that. Even now, when he turned off so much of what made him human, he couldn't fully turn his back on her. The world had repeatedly used them up and thrown them away, and he wouldn't be one more asshole who got what he wanted out of the lovely assassin and moved on.

He flexes his hands as he rises, sorting through the rage and hate and bloodlust until they were all sorted into their appropriate boxes, leashed, but barely. He was back in control, though scant steps away from really losing it. This is where he did his best work, simmering at the edge of his control. Even pushed to the brink he would still take his time, follow all the steps. His grip on his emotions meant that no one got to make him a puppet. Unconsciously he rubbed the scar above his heart, remembering how it felt to have his sense of self completely stripped away. Never again. That was the moment he lost his faith in S.H.I.E.L.D. They didn't help, they didn't fix anything, but they pretended they did, and that was worse. Now he didn't fix anything either, but he was still making the world a better place. The difference was he was honest about what he was doing. He'd been trained to destroy, and a demolition man didn't build anything.

He considered the options, checked the navpoint again, his brain running through at least a dozen tactics. That was one thing he'd managed to develop on his own. He could strategize with the best of them, on a field of battle, even Stark failed more than he did when planning was involved. Weighing and discarding several options, he finally settled on the one he was most comfortable with. "There's an apartment complex not too far from the location that we were sent, mostly empty as it just went under new ownership." The owner was him, just another reason that this job was becoming suspect to him.

"I figure we take up residence there temporarily, maybe stroll down the street and get into a few barfights to blow off some steam and see who crawls out of the woodwork. I'd say two to three days tops for observation, and then we can move in and take care of this, then maybe have a look at why we are both getting the same jobs sent our way. I set up my system so that there wouldn't be overlap, but that doesn't mean He is reliable or trustworthy. I wouldn't put it past Him to try to manipulate the situation."

If He was meddling again, Clint would finish the job, and then his next arrow would go right in the centre of His forehead. Enough was enough, and Ronin was not a tool like Hawkeye. Ronin was a blade with no handle, and every time you picked him up, you risked slicing open your own skin. He looked at Natasha, raising an eyebrow. "At least, I trust you will allow me to actually perform some reconnaissance before you swing in there and murder my target before running off to rub up against the one-armed man?"

There, see? His sense of humour wasn't as dead as his sense of camaraderie and human decency. He could still make a fucking joke, unlike some of the hoity toity 'we are heroes' fucking crowd. He was so tired of that trite justification for all the violence and wanton destruction. They would all be so much happier, and probably healthier, if they admitted that they were in this because they loved it, thrived on it, needed it. The benefits and repercussions were all just side effects. He was there, Tasha too, they were just waiting for the rest of the fucking world to catch up.


	6. Chapter 6

"What fun would it be to just kill them right away when we can play with them?" Natasha shrugs, though to call it that is to belittle the grace of the action. "I'd much rather take our time and see what is truly going on. They are playing with us, so let's take our time. I wonder if He is expecting that from us. If this is something designed to pit us against each other, or designed to get us killed, it means we have to play opposite our usual plans and routines. We have to be steps ahead of Him and them. So we watch, we do your reconnaissance, and then we plan carefully." Her smile transforms into a teasing grin, a face that he has seen a thousand times before. "Besides, who says I have to wait to kill them to go play with 'the one-armed man' as you call him? And would I ever turn down bar fights? Honestly, Barton, when have I ever? Don't you remember how much fun we had in Oklahoma and Texas. We should go back sometime. I believe you owe that rodeo rider a rematch."

Pushing off the wall, Natasha approached him with only a few steps. "I don't know for sure who sent me on this mission. I got the message and I took down the coordinates. You know that these days I mostly work for two specific employers and take the occasional job from the Red Room. I'm still working off my endless debt until I can get as free of them as I possibly can." A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "I doubt it was the Red Room. They usually have clear targets. The last job they sent me on was to retrieve a piece of tech that in the 'wrong hands' would cause them a great deal of trouble. I still have not delivered it to them. Perhaps it has something to do with whatever we've been thrown into."

She pulled a thumb-drive out of one of the many hidden compartments in her suit and held it up. "I had to kill two up and coming businessmen in the world of technology and invention. The target had created something that they wanted. I don't know what it is, but I also don't like the feeling that we're being played. All I know is that they wanted it enough that I was supposed to leave a bloody mess behind while disguised as another woman in their same field. That's what I left behind to come here. I didn't think anything of it until we both received messages at the same time to go to Hoboken. You can have it if you want it. I'll handle the Red Room."

The thought that she was working with the Red Room again blasted through Clint, finally shaking him out of his own dark reveries. His brow furrows, real concern showing on his face for the first time in a very long time. "Nat I..." Clint's voice trails off, and he shakes his head. He used to know what to say, in situations like this. He used to know how to reach out, to connect. That wasn't who he was anymore. That wasn't who Ronin was. He turned away from his last friend, letting the calm emptiness where he usually existed settle back over him. There wasn't anything left for him but vengeance. It wouldn't do for him to forget that, to forget them. "Keep the data. It doesn't matter to me, and I'd rather you not get in deeper water with the Ruskies."

In a few moments he had his gear properly assembled and everything tucked into its proper holster, pushing thoughts of freeing his friend from the bondage she owed that infernal training centre from his mind. That wasn't what he was here for, that wasn't the task he had chosen for himself, and he had a feeling she wouldn't appreciate it anyway. "We head to Hoboken, set up Ground Zero in the building I mentioned, and then go look for trouble. No biggie. In and out. And when this is done? Maybe it's time to go pay Him a visit and get some real answers. We both know that's what He really wants, it's why He keeps sending jobs our way."

That and the real heroes couldn't be seen doing the dirty work that Clint and Natasha took on. They had always been separate from the others. More human, more fragile... more expendable. The proper agents, sent out to take care of the messy jobs, the wetwork, the stuff that groups like S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to pretend they didn't engage in, so as to keep their lily-white reputations intact. No one was truly innocent in this business though... Well, maybe Cap. That fucking boy scout had goodness and light crammed so far up his backside it was almost an embarrassment.

With a nod to Tasha, he headed down to the compound's garage, mentally going through his vehicle options. He preferred the freedom of the bikes, but they were loud and might draw the wrong kind of attention from his tenants and the various gangs that traversed that side of Hoboken. He scanned the vehicles siting in the dim light. It was no impressive high end display like Stark maintained, nothing here was expensive or flashy. Serviceable. Vehicles that you could hide in, vehicles with a lot of surprises under the hood that you would never guess. Armor plating to make them bullet-proof, souped up engines for extra speed, the jeep had a Gatling gun under the hood for really sticky situations... that probably wouldn't be needed. He gestured between a rusted out 2001 Camaro and a 1997 Ford Explorer with a layer of dirt so thick on it the original colour was almost impossible to determine.

"Lady's choice, do you have a preference?" They were both outfitted with weapons compartments, though he thought there might be a flamethrower under the chassis of the Explorer. If she picked that one, he might let her play with it even. The assassin always had an affinity for fire. Instead he turned to Nat, raising an eyebrow. "That is, if you're willing to tuck your bike away here in the compound for a week or two. I know how attached to it you are." One part teasing and one part disapproval, it was what he was made of a lot these days. He didn't believe in getting attached to things any more than he approved of getting attached to people.

Weakness. He saw it everywhere now, in the people around him, in his allies, and in himself most of all. That was what made him so harsh, even when it wasn't necessary. He and Natasha weren't at odds, but if he kept pecking at her they might be. That was a weakness in itself, his trying to drive her away with words and deeds. He frowned, examining the urge. Why now? Why so much emotional reaction? Was it because of the hearing aids? Was it because he had exposed himself in front of her? Probably. He grunted, shrugging his shoulders. "Sorry, you don't deserve the disdain. I'm just embarrassed about earlier."

Anyone else wouldn't have gotten an explanation, but she was the only person Clint still had a working relationship with, and he wanted to maintain it. For now. It served a purpose, and that purpose was out there somewhere, in the heart of Hoboken where He had sent both of them. If this was another draw them back into the fold scheme, then He was about to get a visit from two very irate mercenaries.


	7. Chapter 7

The worst part of being deaf was the silence. When you still have your hearing, you think you know what silence is, but you're wrong. It's not until its gone that you finally understand what the complete and total lack of sound feels like. It's oppressive. No matter where you turn, how far you run, you can't escape it. Maybe being deaf felt different when you were born that way, but when his hearing aids were out, he knew exactly what he had lost. At first, he would panic, worrying that he wasn't breathing, or his heart had stopped beating, because he couldn't hear those minuscule sounds that used to underlay his every moment. 

Funny thing about brains and supposedly autonomous systems within the body, is that the fucking brain can still override any one of those systems, whether through years of focus or sheer, unadulterated panic. If your brain thought that maybe you weren't breathing, you could just... stop. You stop and maybe you don't notice right away. You stop and you're not sure why suddenly your chest is tight and you're feeling dizzy. You stop and suddenly you're on your knees, face damn near blue, and you can't figure out how to make yourself start breathing again because you never fucking have to think about breathing. You can't hear whatever pitiful fucking sound you're making, but there are people around you, silent bodies hovering and casting shadows. They make the panic worse. You're too weak, too vulnerable.

That was when he pulled the rest of the way away from the group. It had been coming for awhile. He hadn't been trained to work with a team, and keeping his disability secret was becoming fucking impossible. Of course, Tony found out, the prying fucking bastard. He seemed to think it was a problem he could throw some money at, but then again that was always Tony's solution to everything. The only thing that shocked him was that Tony didn't tell anyone else. Might be the first fucking secret that Stark had ever managed to keep under wraps. 

He wasn't the first though. It was Tasha, it was always Tasha. They had worked so fucking close together for so long, there was no way she could have missed it. Tony thought it had been a sudden thing, an everything at once kind of event, but Tasha knew different. The loss had been a sliding. Sometimes it was in fits and jumps, sometimes just a slow decline, but the end result was the same. He'd lost his hearing. Abandoned. Alone in this strange, silent world. Tasha tried, she really did. She kept reaching out to him, but what did it matter? The hearing aids weren't like real hearing. He knew the difference between what they offered him and the real sound of his wife's laughter, his children's singing. 

Then he didn't even have that anymore. Bodies broken on the floor. So much fucking blood. Silence. He hadn't woken up, the hearing aids set aside for the night. Safe, he thought, with his secrets. Nothing was ever really secret though, and it had been the hearing aids that had betrayed him. Tech, any tech, can be hacked. Even Stark's tech, though he hadn't thought about it. Two bundles of plastic and wires, no bigger than pennies, and they had torn his whole world apart. The sick bastards left him alive, let him sleep through the massacre, and wake up in a pool of his wife's cooling blood. His fault. He took the aids out. He had the extra beers after dinner. He had let his fucking guard down.

Never again. Not for him. This is why he lived at the Compound now. This is why he left all that hero stuff to people who still had hearts. He had rolled over and put his arm around the remains of his, and then he had ripped everyone involved into a thousand pieces. Funny thing, the violence kept the panic attacks at bay. No more fear spirals, no more loss of breath. Instead a rage would build within him, this need to go out and hurt someone, boiling and seething inside, in the hole where his heart once beat. He couldn't hear it anymore, couldn't feel it. He was the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz, but smarter, because he knew that he didn't want that fragile muscle back.

Yet... Tasha still found him, coming around, wandering through his life as if she belonged there. The rest of them, they let him go. Couldn't square what he had done with their idealism. Fuck them. They hadn't given up what he had. They all had their damage, that thing that kept them separate, but he never had. He wasn't really one of them, and he had had a real life. A whole world that was apart from the violence and the terror. At least he had thought he did. Instead the violence and terror walked into his secret life and erased it. Now? Now he would track all that darkness to its source and eradicate it. 

Winston Churchill said that "If you kill the murderer, the quantity of murderers will not change." What about if you kill ten? Twenty? Jean Rostand said "Kill one man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill them all, and you are a god." Clint didn't need to be a god, but he could handle being a conqueror. A conqueror of the evil scum crawling around the world and suppressing all that was good and light. Just because he couldn't touch that light anymore didn't mean he wasn't going to give everything he had to serve it. Maybe the next woman and her kids lived, because he had killed the men about to gun them down. Maybe the next Clint Barton didn't have to become what he was, because he could wake up the next morning safe, even though half his senses were sitting on the bedside table.


End file.
